


On the Ethics of Piracy

by scarlett_the_seachild



Series: on causation [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Exploitation, Hijacking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masochism, Mutual Pining, Prostitution, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, john laurens being sad as per
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-04-01 02:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13988799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlett_the_seachild/pseuds/scarlett_the_seachild
Summary: “I missed you too, dear boy.”Alexander lifted his head from Laurens’ coat to eyeball him evilly. “Don’t you ‘dear boy’ me,” he chastised him. “You didn’t say goodbye.”“I mean, I bought you a horse.”things get worse





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All of this is made up made up made up

When Laurens rode back into Valley Forge it was a Sunday afternoon. The type of Sunday that was auspiciously well-named; the air, still recovering from winter was crisp with frost but the edge was blunted by shy swathes of light, nudging their way through the trees to warm the back of his neck and prickling the skin where the material of his uniform was thickest, in a way that wasn’t unpleasant, but also not entirely comfortable. Laurens could feel his shirt sticking to his back, his cheeks and forehead slightly damp with sweat – a stark contrast to the tips of his ears and knuckles which were getting the full force of the cold.

Alexander was in the stables when he got there. He looked up as Laurens entered, took in the sight of him flushed all pink and white before resuming the brushing of his horse. “You’re back.”

Laurens nodded. He led his horse to the stable boy and saw her fed and watered before turning to admire the red mare. He ran a hand through her thick, healthy mane, scratching her affectionately between the ears. “I see you two have gotten acquainted.”

Alexander made a humming noise at the back of his throat. “She’s friendly,” he replied, hesitating before adding “To me, anyway. She doesn’t think much of Lafayette.”

Laurens’ mouth twisted. “I thought as much.” At the market where he’d bought her, he had asked for the shortest-tempered beast on sale. Despite the merchant informing him she had tried to kick off would-be buyers more than once, the mare had been as meek and compliant in Laurens’ hands as if he’d been riding her for years. He’d wondered if she and Hamilton shared an eye for character. “What have you called her?”

Alexander shook his head. “I haven’t,” he replied. “Gil forbid me from calling her Bucephalus and I’ve yet to think of anything worse.”

Laurens laughed. The sound made Alexander grin and at last he glanced away from the mare, looking Laurens in the face properly for the first time. He gripped his arm, pulling him forcefully into an embrace. Laurens felt his body go slack, limbs folding willingly as Alexander’s arms went up to reach around his torso, fitting his chin to the crook between Laurens’ shoulder and neck and leaning close so that his breath brushed warm against his ear: “Missed you.”

Laurens clasped Hamilton to him. Felt him curl up small instinctively, bright auburn head settling beneath his chin, hands clasping the front of his lapel. He breathed him in, smelling leather and saddle grease. His hands tightened on his waist. “I missed you too, dear boy.”

Alexander lifted his head from Laurens’ coat to eyeball him evilly. “Don’t you ‘dear boy’ me,” he chastised him. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

“I mean, I bought you a _horse.”_

Alexander shrugged. “Still.” He drew away from Laurens’ shirt and clapped him on the arm, masculine and comradely once more. “How was it with Greene? Did he say anything about me?”

Laurens rolled his eyes amusedly, following him out the stables. “Not in so many words. He asked how Washington’s favourite ventriloquist was doing.”

Hamilton bristled visibly, lip curling into a snarl. “Poorly,” he complained bitterly, as if the word had an acidic taste. “I feel like I’m under house arrest. Every day he thinks up some new excuse to keep me here – _Tilghman’s not acquainted with Schuyler_ or _so and so’s French isn’t good enough…_ He won’t send me on any actual missions but he _will_ have me ferrying despatches all over the country, no expenses paid of course. I tell you, it’s bad enough being passed over constantly for command, but what the point is in correcting grammar and playing delivery boy when I can barely even _earn my keep_ -”

“Whoa, hey,” Laurens interrupted him, putting a hand briefly on his arm. “What do you need?”

Alexander glanced up at him, startled, his eyes blown wide as if he hadn’t even realised what he’d said. “What?” he asked, a crease appearing between the smooth, boyish skin of his brow. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You just said you couldn’t afford to earn your keep.”

“Oh,” Alexander’s expression cleared and he waved dismissively. “No, I…it was a figure of speech.”

_“Alexander.”_

“It’s nothing,” Alexander repeated crossly. “Just…well. If you must know, my pistol’s broken.”

Laurens’ steps faltered as he frowned at him. “Your _pistol’s_ broken?”

“Yes.”

_“How?”_

“I don’t know,” Alexander snapped, casting a fiery look at Laurens as they reached headquarters. “It’s a sore subject. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Seeing he was serious Laurens dropped it. Alexander pushed open the door. Meade, Tilghman and Lafayette were already inside, their heads bent low over a map spread out across the table. Lafayette gave a loud, joyful exclamation at the sight of Laurens and crossed the space quickly, hugging him tightly while Hamilton smirked and re-retook his place round the table, propping his elbows up on its surface.

“You have returned,” said Lafayette, quite unnecessarily. “Good. How was it?”

Laurens shrugged. “Alright,” he replied unimaginatively. “Pretty quiet.”

“You bought Alexander a horse.”

Laurens tried not to colour under the full intensity of Lafayette’s resentment. “I’m sorry. Did you want one?”

Lafayette narrowed his eyes, unamused. “I suppose it was a whim?”

Laurens nodded. “That’s right,” he answered mildly. “It looks like him.”

A snicker resounded in waves round the room as Alexander stuck his tongue out at Laurens, following the childish response up with a crude gesture. “Fuck you, John.”

“He meant because of your hair,” Meade said fairly, trying to placate him. “Right, Laurens?”

“Sure,” Laurens agreed, crossing the room and sliding round the table to join them. “Someone tell me what we’re looking at.”

Meade shifted the map so that Laurens could see it better. In lieu of proper pins, most of which McHenry had managed to lose weeks into their quarantine, they had marked the key landmarks with chess pieces. Laurens was bemused to find however that the point which seemed to be gaining the most focus was set around the harbour. In answer to his quizzical expression, Meade passed him a sheaf of documents from the inside of his pocket.

“Mulligan’s latest intelligence,” he explained. “We know Simcoe plans to move his troops South through Philadelphia. According to his fence however the Rangers are nothing short of a diversion designed to draw the eye from a merchant schooner bound to dock in a couple of days, by the name of the _Amelia._ Intel says she’s groaning under the weight of twenty British canons and thrice-triple the number of guns and ammunition disguised as rum and tobacco. Lafayette will lead a small force down to deal with Simcoe, meanwhile the plan is for a group to sneak aboard, indulge in a cheeky spot of piracy. What do you think? You game?”

“Me,” piped up Alexander suddenly. “I’m game. I want to indulge in a cheeky spot of piracy.”

Tilghman sent him a dubious look. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Alexander shrugged. “It can wait.” Laurens’ eyebrows darted upwards. He didn’t think he’d ever heard those words come out of Alex’s mouth before in regards to his workload. _He really must be suffering._

Meade however still looked doubtful. “I don’t know…” he said hesitantly. “The ship’s unguarded so as not to rouse suspicion. Even so, there could be danger. If anything happens and Washington finds out we let you go…”

“Oh come on,” Alexander cut him off, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t been out of sight of camp for _weeks._ The least you can do is give me this. Plus, not to be jealous or anything, but canon theft is sort of my thing.”

Meade hummed agreeably. “Granted,” he allowed. “Alright. Laurens, what say ye? You want to go with him?”

“I say aye,” replied Laurens, scratching his chin reminiscently. “You know, I used to fantasise about being a pirate a lot when I was younger.”

Alexander made an odd noise that got caught on the way to being a snort and ended up a funny sort of cough. Lafayette gave Laurens a bored look. “Of course you did,” he said scathingly. “Why am I so unsurprised by this piece of information?”

Laurens raised his hands in a gesture of cluelessness. “Beats me.” He yawned and stretched. He felt all of a sudden quite tired, the long ride here having finally taken its toll. His skin itched with the desire for fresh clothes. “Do any of you know where I’m lodged? I could do with changing.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton at once, getting to his feet. “You’re with me. Come, I’ll show you.”

Laurens gave the others a sardonic salute before following Alexander across the campsite, taking care not to trip over the haphazard mass of pegs and guide-ropes. Although Alexander took the lead, walking with a surety and purpose that Laurens knew he ought to find comforting in its familiarity, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding as he followed in his footsteps that only increased the closer they got. He supposed it had something to do with the last time they had seen each other. Laurens knew he could have maybe handled that better, but things were always so complicated with Alexander. Sometimes he wanted to talk, sometimes he was so cagey being around him was like smoking next to a powder keg. Whatever this was, this simple transaction they had going for them, made things so much easier. Supply and demand. Basic consumer economics.

Hamilton was going to end up doing the maths for a whole country someday.

Once inside the tent Laurens took off his coat, placing it carefully on the hanger Alexander had hooked from the main pole. Ordinary he would have just flung it over the desk chair, but Alex was so fastidious about Laurens’ things. He took less care over his shirt, driving it fiercely over his head as if it constricted him and grimacing at the accumulation of sweat and dirt that clung to the cotton.

Alexander hung by the entrance. He was chewing the inside of his cheek, watching Laurens although not really. Despite his gaze being trained on his chest, it was clear he was thinking hard about something else. When Laurens began to feel uncomfortable by his lingering he straightened up, flexing flirtatiously in the hope of dispelling the tension. “Like what you see?”

Alexander rolled his eyes amusedly and gave a small smile, still Laurens wasn’t sure whether there wasn’t a twist of sourness about it. “Are we trading roles now?”

Laurens’ expression faltered. He turned away, suddenly very self-conscious that he was only half-dressed. “That depends I guess,” he said hollowly. His stomach felt leaden, he wished he had stayed in Philadelphia. “Were you looking to make some money?”

Alex didn’t answer at once. His eyes travelled to Laurens’ pistol, still hanging from his hip. It was a nice piece, ornate. A family heirloom. Laurens’ father had pressed it into his hand just before he had left to join Washington, with some half-hearted attempt at “I know you’ll prove worthy of it”. Laurens wasn’t sure why he’d had to prove that his value was at least as much as an antique gun’s but there you go, some people were funny about these things.

Like Alexander, apparently. “My pistol was…not inexpensive,” he began, still chewing the side of his mouth. “Nothing on _yours,_ obviously, but still. I felt the loss.” He paused, eyes flickering up to meet John’s and Laurens felt his stomach tighten in self-disgust at the nervousness there, the tentativeness. He traced the movement of Alexander’s throat when he swallowed before trying, “I had wondered if I might…earn it.”

Laurens didn’t say anything. He lowered his gaze from Alexander’s imploring dark blue eyes to work at his belt, undoing the buckle and dropping the holster onto his belt with the pistol inside. Alexander’s gaze followed the movement and Laurens suppressed a bark of hollow laughter upon reflecting that perhaps this was something Alex and his father had in common.

He straightened up, beckoning to Alexander with his fingers. “Come here.”

Alexander went immediately, obedient as a blood hound. Another flicker of bitterness passed through Laurens as he contemplated that Alexander was never this compliant ordinarily. Usually he never did anything without a fight, even orders he took as though he were doing a favour which was causing him great inconvenience. But now he was biddable, dutiful even – staring up at Laurens with those ridiculously large eyes, long lashes fluttering in anticipation like the flick of a lady’s fan. Laurens tried to keep his expression detached as he undid the buttons of Alexander’s coat, sliding his hands beneath the shoulder pads to free them.

Alexander’s breath caught as Laurens folded the coat and hung it beside his own. Laurens suspected anxiety about creases. He pushed it to the back of his mind as he reached for the hem of Alexander’s shirt, tucked into the waistband of his breeches, and pulled it up over his head. At once Alexander’s arms went up around his torso, hugging himself tightly – Laurens didn’t know whether it had been a reflex movement, or self-consciousness, or the cold. Either way he slid his arms up Alexander’s sides as if trying to warm him, as he had done the last time Alex had jumped impulsively into a lake and almost given himself hyperthermia. The physical touch seemed to relax Alexander somewhat; his ram-rod spine slumped slightly, tension easing from his shoulders as Laurens’ hands applied light pressure to his biceps.

“Do you want me to-” he began, stopping when Laurens shook his head, cutting him off. In the past, Laurens had paid Hamilton to hurt him and he thought maybe that’s what Alexander had expected now, after a long journey on horseback and with a riding crop only a few meters out of reach. Perhaps that was easier for Alexander to deal with, to know what was required of him. But Laurens had paid him for other things too – for tugging the knots out of his hair, or doctoring his bruises, or allowing him to sleep with his head in his lap. It was only fair that he receive compensation for Laurens’ indulgences, even when he wasn’t in that headspace.  

Also, Alexander didn’t have to hit Laurens for it to hurt.

He lowered his hands from Alexander’s arms, placing them gently on the sides of his waist. He grazed the sharp grooves below his ribs, fitting his thumb into the ridges. Alexander shivered, biting his lip as Laurens bent forward, leaning his forehead against his collarbone. He exhaled, tension flooding from his muscles as his mind began to swim, untethered from where he usually kept it tightly moored. His desire was consuming him, he could feel his body heating up and beneath him Alexander was warming too, his skin flushed a beautiful rosy pink that made Laurens want to sink his teeth into it.

He put his mouth to Alexander’s collarbone, tongue flitting briefly over the sharp protrusion before closing his lips upon it. Alexander gasped, and Laurens knew that it was from shock rather than arousal but it still sent a bolt straight through him to his already hard cock, pressed hard against Alexander’s thigh. Laurens sucked gently, aware of Alexander’s shaking but unable to stop himself. He was making tiny pleased noises, rocking slightly against Laurens while his hands moved through his hair, as if encouraging him and Laurens knew they were feigned – knew maybe Alexander had learned a thing or two in his countless visits to bawdy houses and his dalliances in New York but my God the things they were doing to him, the things he knew they would continue to do to him for many sleepless nights to come –

Laurens groaned, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as it seemed to wrench everything out of him, and slumped half his body weight against Alex’s torso. Alexander gave a tiny “Oh” at the sudden dampness, almost moving backwards but catching himself. Instead he rubbed Laurens’ back, whispering sweetly into his ear as he shivered through the aftershocks, although not for very long. Before he knew it Laurens was wrenching away, turning his back on him as he reached for a towel.

“I don’t have anything on me right now,” he told him without looking at him. “Do you want me to write you an IOU?”

Alexander opened his mouth to respond. Tried again when no words came out. “No,” he managed after what felt like a tremendous effort. “It’s fine. I can remember.”

Laurens nodded curtly. Waited for Alexander to leave before cleaning himself up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended up being a lot longer than I intended...i can only apologise

Fastidious, was the word his colleagues used to describe Alexander. Fussy. Pernickety. There was something of the house-wife in their choice that seemed to go hand in hand with Alexander’s apparently endless ability to darn, mend, sew – in effect, to repair before the thought of throwing away even entered his mind. The others could be stumbling to bed after long hours of card games and whiskey and Alexander would still be up by the last melting stub of a candle, needles poking out his mouth as he crouched low over an old shirt, or a pair of breeches.  
  
Lafayette teased him for his resource, calling it womanish. Alexander tossed back that poverty has no sex, and that we can’t all afford to be so shabbily masculine as himself (irony. No one spent half so much on makeup and powder as Lafayette) or Laurens – who had long perfected the art of looking like he had dragged himself across half the country and ended the adventure by taking a bath in the Delaware before writing his father to send him new silk ties, because the last ones weren’t befitting the status of an officer. Alexander thought he was probably trying to prove some kind of point, which alright, fine. We all do things for the aesthetic, and pissing off his father was better for team morale than when he went alone to hunt squirrels and came back covered in blood, evasive about whose it was. But laughter when Alexander’s coat ripped, or his pistol broke, he could only tolerate so far. And pity, not at all.  
  
No one made fun of his fastidiousness when he harnessed it to missions. Alexander had gone over the small rowing boat twice checking it was watertight. After his misadventure in the Schuylkill, he wouldn’t be taking any chances. Laurens watched with his arms over his chest and lips pursed while Alexander checked that everything was secure before straightening up and nodding at him.  
  
“Ready,” he said.  
  
“Right,” Tilghman stepped onto the bank, clapping a hand onto Laurens’ shoulder. “When you get into the harbour, don’t hang about. The Amelia has a Portuguese flag; get to her quickly and take the ship with as minimal disturbance as possible.”  
  
“You act like neither of us has ever commandeered a schooner before,” Laurens said sarcastically, shacking off his uniform.  
  
“She’s a brigantine,” Meade frowned at him from where he stood at his right. “For God’s sake Laurens, read your brief.”  
  
Laurens shrugged, clambering inelegantly into the rowboat which teetered with the extra weight. Hamilton unslipped the rope from where it lay moored and pushed. The boat rocked off the pebbles; they scraped the floor with their paddles until the prow cut through the water. As the wind swept the boat onto the river, Lafayette blew a kiss.  
  
“Bonne chance,” he called. “Try not to kill one another.”  
  
“So little faith in us,” Laurens commented, the forced cheer of the words not quite masking his bitterness.  
  
Hamilton hummed thoughtfully, his movements well-paced and languid as he rowed. A gust of wind caused his coat to flap open on the upwards stroke, revealing McHenry’s borrowed blunderbuss hanging at his hip. It was heavy and large, sitting somewhat out of place on Alexander’s slim waistline. Laurens didn’t like how it looked, jutting out so brashly, so stupidly. Alexander ought to carry something nifty and elegant, like him. A Queen Anne, maybe. Laurens would see to it.  
  
“Looking forward to living out your childhood fantasies?” asked Alexander, after a long while of nothing but the birds calling above the endless stretch of green river. “I bet you had a pirate name growing up.”  
  
Laurens laughed. “I wasn’t that imaginative,” he admitted. “I probably thought Jack Laurens was quite good.”  
  
“They wouldn’t have been able to pronounce ‘Laurens’,” said Hamilton. “Jacky Lawrence. Or Jonny.”  
  
Laurens cringed violently at ‘Jonny’. “Probably for the best I didn’t go down that route,” he answered. “I’m not sure the reality will be quite the same as the expectation.”  
  
“Don’t be so certain,” Alexander rebuked him mildly. “Your father said the same about your joining the army, and here you are. Having the time of your life.”  
  
“That’s true,” Laurens agreed wryly. “Clearly being apart from you has made me cynical.”  
  
“Clearly,” Alexander agreed. A pause. “I didn’t know you wanted to be a pirate. I don’t know why I found it so funny.”  
  
Laurens shrugged. “It’s not a particularly uncommon aspiration for a child,” he said. “Didn’t you?”  
  
“No,” replied Alexander bluntly. “I knew some growing up. They were loud, and smelled. Not my aesthetic. Also their cravats never matched their waistcoats.”  
  
Laurens laughed so hard the boat shook. “Those were your only objections?” he asked, voice croaky with amusement. “Poor style and hygiene?”  
  
“Still are,” Alexander shrugged. “I don’t have much to say by way of dispute on the ethics of piracy.”  
  
“You don’t have much to dispute about the ethics of theft and murder?”  
  
“Ah now you see, that’s very Toryish thinking,” Alexander grinned at him. “The organisation of the pirate ship is structured almost seminally around the principles of democratic republicanism – ideals which were born out of the anti-monarchist sentiment gripping England in the wake of the Civil War. No man is worth more than the other, with every major decision being decided by way of vote, a franchise which the whole crew is permitted regardless of birth or status. The Captain is not chosen based on pedigree but elected by popular ballot on his due fitness to govern. All are entitled to an equal share of provisions and prizes captured, an ideology which later developed into such social and fiscal experiments as the Pirate Republic on the island of Nassau, or the anarchist colony of Libertatia in Madagascar.”  
  
“You’re telling me that the chief motivation for piracy is egalitarian idealism,” Laurens deadpanned.  
  
“Of course not,” Alexander rolled his eyes. “The principles of the War survived in the organisation of pirate ships, and indeed, Nassau may have been a leading inspiration for our own great American experiment. However, the chief motivation for piracy was not a New World Order, but the unchecked pursuit of liberty and hedonism.”  
  
“You mean libertarianism.”  
  
“Call it what you want,” Alexander shrugged. “They knew what they wanted and they took it, with no regard for archaic institutions as the Crown, or the Church, or morality.”  
  
He was looking at Laurens oddly, in that challenging way which meant he was calling him out on something. Laurens tore his gaze away, unable to meet the intensity that he knew, if prolonged, would flay him open just as easily as if it had been a riding crop.  
  
“Right,” he joked, trying to introduce some lightness back into the conversation. “So you’re saying fuck politics, and that I ought not to give up on my childish ambitions?”  
  
Alexander shrugged again. “You can do what you like,” he replied indifferently. “Like I said, it’s not my thing. But I don’t think anyone who believes in Manifest Destiny has much right to turn their noses up at piracy. Want it. Take it. Isn’t that the American imperative? At least Blackbeard was honest about it.”  
  
Laurens forced a laugh that Alexander didn’t echo, and they lapsed back into silence.  
  
They had been rowing for hours before they finally caught sight of the harbour. The dock itself was small, a few flimsy wooden boards strapped together to support a harbourmaster’s and general store. It had been built quickly, like everything else, to accommodate the war, and it showed in the rotting scaffolding, the rope and chains damp and festering with mildew. Seven or eight merchant ships were anchored alongside it, bloating bellies floating like flat black flies atop the water. A smaller vessel sat wedged in the middle, brightly coloured flag flashing from the mast.  
  
“There,” Alexander pointed towards the brigantine, squatting between two Spanish galleons. “Portuguese flag.”  
  
Laurens followed his gaze, nodding curtly. “Right.” He looked at Alexander. “How do you want to do this?”  
  
Alexander shrugged. “Round the back, I suppose,” he answered. “Keep under the galleon’s shadow. If we keep close enough to her they won’t spot us till we’re at the rear, and then we can climb aboard that way.”  
  
“Aye, aye Captain.”  
  
They steered the rowboat closer, taking care to stay close to the galleon. From this distance it was easy to make out the figures on board – Laurens kept his eyes pricked, muscles tense for a flash of red that never came. Apparently the merchant ships were just as unguarded as Mulligan’s intel had gathered. It was hard not to feel too disappointed.  
  
A few more strokes across the water and they had reached the rear of the brigantine. Hamilton dropped his paddle, reaching for the skirting and making to haul himself up. Laurens grabbed his boot just as he left the boat, giving him a leg-up before following suit.  
  
Upon landing they both crouched low, taking a second to readjust themselves and gather their surroundings. Most of the crew were off deck, overseeing the distribution of supplies into the harbour and ferrying cargo up and down the gangplank. Only a few members remained on board further up the ship, and thankfully they had their backs turned. Laurens signalled wordlessly to Alex in the direction of the hatch – Alexander nodded and they made towards it, taking care on the hinges as they crept below deck.  
  
“Whoa,” Laurens breathed once he regained his feet. Around him nearly two dozen steel-grey canons sat, long noses lying dormant like animals in slumber. Laurens approached one, running his palm along the long neck and feeling excitement thrumming beneath it, the inertia of kinetic energy humming under the sleeping beast’s metal skin, sending currents of electricity through his body.  
  
Apparently the novelty of canon theft had worn off on Alexander as he cast an indifferent glance over them, marching up to one of the crates labelled “sugar”. He kicked off the lid. As it clattered to the floor it revealed the booty he had been looking for – guns, ammunition and grenades, glinting brighter than pearls in the cavernous dark.  
  
“There’s your treasure, John,” Alexander commented, mouth twisting ironically.  
  
Laurens bent down and plucked from the crate a pistol. Brand new and gleaming, Royal Navy seal emblazoned across the underside. He handed it to Alexander who accepted it with a grin.  
  
It happened very quickly. The moment Laurens’ hand touched Alexander’s they were sent flying apart by the sound of a gunshot splitting through the wood.  
  
Instinctively, Laurens pushed Hamilton to the floor. Alexander yelped, clawing at Laurens to release him but Laurens held him down, covering his body with his own as he scanned the space for their assailants. A redcoat leapt out from behind a rafter aiming his pistol; Laurens fired, cracking through ramparts but missing the soldier by a foot. Alex scrambled for his blunderbuss, closing around it just in time to shoot another stepping out from the shadows. He yelped as the bullet tore through his shoulder and Alexander jumped to his feet, snatching his sword from its sheath and running him through.  
  
“Laurens!” Alexander screamed in warning, kicking the dead redcoat off his sword and firing at yet another soldier, gun trained in his direction.  
  
Laurens scrambled for his sword, just managing to parry an incoming blow and fling the soldier away. He grabbed the knife strapped to his calf, swinging it into the redcoat’s side as he rushed at him again. It slid beneath his ribs and the man gurgled a scream, clutching in vain as blood began to pool.  
  
“Topside,” Laurens yelled, waving Alexander towards the hatch and covering him while he climbed up the ladder.  
  
Emerging blinkingly into daylight, Laurens felt his stomach sink. Four or five redcoat soldiers were racing across the deck with their muskets raised. Beside him, he heard Alexander groan.  
  
“I think this is maybe a trap,” he muttered.  
  
“Kings College has done wonders for you,” Laurens snapped, reloading his pistol. “Any other bright observations?”  
  
“Just the one,” Hamilton replied. “Hold on a second.”  
  
He fired upwards, shooting through the rope that secured one of the lower rafters. The beam tilted and faltered; Alexander shot again and it fell loose, collapsing into the oncoming soldiers who scattered to avoid it, a couple becoming crushed in the process. The remaining redcoats rushed towards them; Alexander fired again, swearing when he was out and dropping the blunderbuss for the Navy pistol. While he loaded it Laurens ran to meet their attackers, alternating between his sword and knife as he fought two at once.  
  
They were artillery men, not accustomed to the kind of ruthless, animalistic close-quarter fighting Laurens and Hamilton had made it a point to master. It wasn’t enough to be military trained, you had to enjoy it – enjoy it with that same crazed abandon that had Laurens searching out fights in bars and underground boxing rings, kicks and bruises and broken bottles, men with skin blossoming black and purple, their teeth and knuckles crimson with blood. Laurens grinned, eyes demonically wide and alight with flame as his blade flashed in front of him. He could see fear on the men’s faces and a spark of pleasure caught somewhere deep in his stomach, a flame leaping from the strike of a tinderbox.  
  
A soldier waved his arm in a clumsy attack, leaving his lower half open. Laurens slashed at his thigh and he buckled; he went to finish him off when the second assailant took a blow at his arm. Laurens swore, sinking his sword into the wounded man and turning to address his attacker; before he had time to wonder if he could meet the next blow the soldier screamed, clutching his neck. Alexander stood behind him, sword and pistol raised. He tore the man away from Laurens, slashing quickly at his throat before wrenching the musket out of his hands.  
  
“Here,” he said, throwing the musket at Laurens. “You’re better long distance.”  
  
“There are more coming,” Laurens told him, tearing at the gunpowder pouch with his teeth.  
  
“I know,” Hamilton replied, jerking his head towards the redcoats currently storming their way up the gangplank. “I’m going to get to the wheel. There’s a barrel of gunpowder at the end of the ship. Cover me while I fight them off and I’ll try and get it to you.”  
  
Laurens nodded and Alexander shot off like a cannonball, racing towards the end of the vessel as the soldiers broke on board. Laurens crouched low and fired, reloading his musket as Alexander grabbed the dead body as cover against the firing line. Laurens kept his eye trained on alert, firing at any man with a clear shot on Alex who had flung himself wildly into combat. He was quick and nimble, limbs flashing with a grace and speed that had served him just as well on many a ballroom floor. Indeed, watching him was not unlike watching a dance, his movements flowing easy and smooth like running water, yet as lethal and wild as an out of control hurricane.  
  
Swords flashed with gunshots and Alexander was laughing – a wild, reckless laugh that carried on the wind and rang in Laurens’ ears louder than the screams of the men as they collapsed onto the deck, louder than bullets cracking through the air and tearing into masts. Alexander kicked a man off the side of the ship and turned to look at Laurens. He was smiling, and even from this distance his eyes were bright with adrenaline, his entire face shining with joy and youth and bloodlust.  
  
He signalled at Laurens and started running again. Laurens covered him, a trail of bodies following in his wake as he raced towards the wheel. His hands seized the barrel of gunpowder, he picked it up and with a mighty effort, threw it at the leftover soldiers. Laurens followed the angle, gaze trained on the barrel as it moved in a graceful arch until it was directly in his range. He pulled the trigger.  
  
The barrel exploded. Through the cloud of fire and ash Laurens could just see Alexander, waving as he reached the wheel. Laurens dropped the musket to the floor and ran down with his sword aloft, finishing off the few survivors before helping Alexander haul anchor.  
  
“The mainsails,” Alexander yelled as the ship began to drift from dock.  
  
He ran to untie the ropes, quick fingers flying on the knots with the honed practice of an islander. The sails dropped, enormous canvas wings swelling and swiftly becoming pregnant with wind. Alexander looked up as they fell and let out a whoop. His gaze dropped to Laurens, a grin on his face so wide with such crazy happiness that, beautiful as it was, Laurens couldn’t feel any pain from it. Couldn’t feel anything but the urge to laugh and he did, throwing it over his shoulder and into the wind, until it was the only thing left behind as the ship pulled steadily out of the harbour and onwards into the horizon.  
  
*  
  
Despite the misadventures of the afternoon, and the very fact of “trap” that their intel had failed to intercept, the aides were more than willing to label the mission a success. The boys were alive, and the guns and cannons in rebel hands. Laurens and Hamilton were given a hero’s welcome which they lapped up like cats over cream, and considered it very well deserved. Whichever tyrant you called it, God or the British, they so rarely let you have a good day.  
  
A good day. Laurens stood on the bay where the brigantine was moored, gazing out at it across the water. The moon shone bright above the water, plunging the bay into a dusky blue darkness that seemed to shimmer slightly, like the evening was a bolt of silk that had been painted on. Laurens took a swig from his whiskey bottle and felt heat course through him, not quite overpowering the adrenaline that had yet to cool from his blood. Nothing seemed quite real. A good day. Maybe even the best of his life.  
  
The wind was still up, cool and sharp on Laurens’ skin as it breezed over the bay. He closed his eyes, tilting his chin up in enjoyment and tried to recapture the feeling of it whipping his hair, cold and stinging on his face as he and Alexander sailed out of the harbour. He tried to remember a time he had ever been happier and came up short. Whatever, no matter. He had the memory, warm and delicious like a fire in winter, and he would hold onto it for as long as he was able.  
  
The crack of a twig, followed by the soft crunch of undergrowth had him spinning around, hand twitching for his gun as if looking for an excuse to shoot it again. His stomach dropped upon seeing that it was Alexander.  
  
Perhaps sensing his disappointment, Hamilton smiled. “Just me,” he said, a little apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
Laurens’ hand fell limply by his side, a cold draft creeping over him that had little to do with the wind. Alexander stepped properly out of the shadow of the trees, hand outstretched for the bottle which Laurens passed him obediently.  
  
“Not celebrating with the others?”  
  
Alexander shook his head, swallowing. A drop of whiskey landed on the corner of his mouth, he wiped it with the back of his hand. Laurens traced the movements, the perfect mechanism of his throat, the elegant indifference of skin brushing mouth, all as fluid and graceful as the tug of the tide over the waves and felt something tug deep in his own chest.  
  
“I needed to cool down,” Alexander replied. “Clear my head.” He wiped the rim of the bottle, (Cute, thought Laurens sarcastically) before passing it back to him. “Thank you for the saddle grease,” he said. “Although I probably won’t be able to sit still in it for a while. I feel like my limbs are full of fire ants.”  
  
Laurens nodded. His own skin had been itching since they had gotten to shore, nostrils craving the singe of gunpowder. He gestured fruitlessly at the bay. “I thought coming outside might provide some relief.”  
  
Alexander tilted his head. “Has it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Alexander hummed, as if this was the answer he had expected. “You always have an itch, don’t you?” he observed. “Tell me, do you ever find relief?”  
  
“Once in a while,” Laurens replied sarcastically. “Although it never lasts long. I have to keep putting money in.”  
  
Hurt flashed across Alexander’s face and Laurens felt a stab of sadistic pleasure. Serve him right – typical Alexander, creeping like a vampire out of the darkness to suck out all joy with his cleverness and ruin the best day of his life. He took another drink of whiskey, long and bitter with victory.  
  
“That’s what I came to talk to you about, actually,” Hamilton said, voice a little higher pitched than usual. “The saddle grease. You can have it back.”  
  
Laurens raised an eyebrow. “You’ve changed your tune,” he waved the bottle at Alexander’s hip where the new pistol hung, sleek and deadly. “But I suppose you’ve got what you wanted. I’ll keep my purse on me, in case you manage to break it again.”  
  
“Can you be anything other than horrible?” Alexander snapped. “I’m trying to tell you, you don’t have to owe me. Consider the debt paid.”  
  
Laurens clucked his tongue. “You drive a hard bargain,” he taunted in sour-tasting parody. “But you’re right. The grease was cheap, I should have known you’d be insulted. What is it, Alexander? What do you want? Name your price, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”  
  
“I want you to stop being so mean,” Alexander snarled, blinking as tears leapt into his eyes. “I want you to stop paying me every time I do something nice for you. Look at my hand, John.”  
  
He thrust out his palm. It was shaking violently. Laurens recoiled like it was a branding iron.  
  
“I want what you want,” he enforced. “Why do you think I’m out here?”  
  
Laurens’ eyes flitted to Alexander’s shaking hand and down again to the rim of the whiskey bottle. He swallowed hard. “What I want?” he repeated, voice hoarse.  
  
Alexander nodded. “I know the money makes you feel better,” he said. “But I…you don’t have to. I’m happy to do it. It was easy to pretend…slipping into a role, that it was just a means to an end. But it’s not, it isn’t honest. It’s not right to have you thinking you’re the monster, and I’m doing you some kind of service when I…I…”  
  
“Don’t say it,” Laurens warned through gritted teeth, blood pounding in his ears against the erratic beating of his pulse.  
  
Alex made a choking sound. He swallowed, eyes stretched fearfully wide.  
  
“Let me, John,” he forced out. “Please.”  
  
He took a step forward. Laurens didn’t move, conscious of his own breath quickening like he was the roaring in his ears. He knew very well what he ought to do. Push Hamilton away with something cruel, something that would cut deep enough to force him into keeping his distance. Options leapt all too quickly into his head but for some reason he couldn’t get them on his tongue. His mouth was dry. Perhaps it was the way that Hamilton was looking at him.  
  
Alexander put a shaky hand on Laurens’ waist and when Laurens didn’t back away, leaned in. His lips closed around the jut of Laurens’ jawbone, a few centimetres down from his mouth. A self-indulgent sigh escaped him as he dragged his mouth along the line of stubble, pressing his tiny, hard body flush against him.  
  
Laurens grit his teeth, heat rising swiftly in his cock even as his brain began to panic. Alexander lifted his hand from Laurens’ waist, moving to work at the buttons of his coat. It was such a sudden overturning of tables, everything so foreign and strange from Alex being the one exploring his body to the ethereal splash of the moon on the water that for a moment, he wondered if he had slipped from the edge of the riverbank into one of his hellish dreams. Alexander was trying to kiss him properly now, had taken easily the step Laurens never allowed himself, and his hands were firm on his shoulders. He pushed his tongue between Laurens’ teeth and Laurens felt something in him, a gear in his brain keeping the whole mechanism together, snap.  
  
He groaned before he could stop himself. Encouraged by the sound, Alexander kissed him deeper, hands running up his sides as he eased the coat off his arms. It landed with a quiet thump on the ground; Laurens wondered with bitterness how much Alexander thought he might get out of this long-term, if it meant bearing to see clothes muddied. But ever resourceful, Alexander pushed Laurens back against the ground until he was laying firmly against it, using the coat as a blanket.  
  
With Laurens’ back firm against the coat Alexander climbed onto his hips, thighs constricting either side until he was straddling him. He leaned down, pressing their chests together, and put his mouth to his ear.  
  
“Pretty little rich boy,” he whispered, a new edge suddenly creeping into his voice along with the barest graze of teeth. “Likes to throw his money away. Anything for a look, or a touch.”  
  
Laurens whimpered in response. Something about the way Hamilton spoke, it was like a lever had been pulled inside him. Noticing his blush Alexander grinned, running his hand through Laurens’ hair in a way that might have passed for sweet if it wasn’t for the look in his eye.  
  
“With wealth comes power,” he hummed, thumb passing indulgently over the hollow of Laurens’ cheek. “Control. But that’s not what you want, is it? Quite the opposite, in fact.”  
  
His hands flit over the angle of Laurens’ jaw, landing on the curve of his neck. Laurens swallowed, eyes blown wide as he gazed up at Alexander, staring down at him with lips slightly parted and a faint line between his eyebrows, as though he were a vaguely troubling chess problem. There was a spark in his eye, a glint of insanity Laurens recognised from when they had taken the ship. It sat at startling odds with his otherwise perfect composure.  
  
“What do you want?” he asked.  
  
He said it softly, almost shyly. A slight lilt to his voice, like he was worried about displeasing him. Learned or not, Laurens felt a familiar twinge of self-disgust. He licked his lips feverishly, unable to stop himself from croaking out: “Your hand.”  
  
Alexander ran his thumb once again over Laurens’ cheek. “Where?”  
  
Laurens opened his mouth. Closed it again, realising he was unable to say it out loud. Alexander understood. He brushed Laurens’ cheek once more with his knuckles before turning his hand flat, reaching down to curl lightly around Laurens’ neck.  
  
He squeezed, fingertips digging into Laurens’ windpipe. Laurens gasped, eyes rolling into the back of his head at the first instance of pressure, body arching slightly off the ground. Alexander relaxed his grip, giving him a chance to calm himself before squeezing harder, applying steadily more pressure.  
  
Laurens’ head was swimming. Even in the darkness everything around him was bright with colour, with knife-blade clarity, as it had been on the ship. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the feeling of Alex’s strong, firm hand around his throat and allowed himself to drift. Heat was pooling into his stomach, spilling from his obscenely hard cock, currently pressing against the cloth of Alexander’s ass. The promise was agonising; he tried desperately not to think about it, to concentrate on Alexander’s thumb pressing into his jugular.  
  
Alexander’s thighs, thick and strong from climbing and horseback were tight around him, his ass high and firm. There were two high spots of colour on his cheekbones, blazing in contrast against his bright eyes, his red mouth. He increased the force of his hand, gripping tighter and then growing slack and Laurens moaned, aware of a hollowness growing inside him where once it would have been enough and now, through no one’s fault but his own, it was not.  
  
“Alex,” he croaked out, the word breaking off high and desperate.  
  
“What is it?” asked Alexander, grip slacking as he looked down at Laurens with sudden, fearful concern. “What do you need?”  
  
Laurens swallowed. There were tears in his eyes, he blinked them away. “More.”  
  
Alexander drew in a sharp intake of breath. He reached down slowly, keeping one hand wrapped round Laurens’ neck while with the other he slid round the back of Laurens’ breaches, skimming over the material to cup his ass. Laurens groaned, kilting his hips off the ground and Alexander smiled knowingly, reaching into the folds of his coat to withdraw the tin of saddle grease.  
  
“Yes?” he whispered, dragging his mouth along the bare skin of Laurens’ neck and squeezing again.  
  
In answer, Laurens spread his legs. Alexander undid the laces of his breeches, fumbling a little as he sought to do it one handed. He opened the tin, running one long finger along the rim until it was coated thick, and slipped it round the back of Laurens’ legs. Laurens bit his lip at the intrusion, trying to disassociate the act from Alexander. He had done it to himself a few times, cold lonely nights from which he had come miserably, shamed by himself. He had assumed that Alex, who was always so fastidious, would have been repelled by the thought – would perform his task mechanically, if he had to at all. But Alexander was deft, clever hands moving so easily Laurens couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had practice. It was a thought as unwanted as it was welcome.  
  
“Like this?” Alexander whispered, sliding another beside the first and keeping a firm grip around Laurens’ throat.  
  
“I…” Laurens choked out, unable to think.  
  
“I need to hear you, Laurens.”  
  
“Yes,” Laurens sighed, hissing slightly at the rough drag.  
  
“Do you want more?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Alexander obliged, sliding out to add more grease. Laurens whined at the sudden emptiness and felt a stab of self-disgust, dissipating into nothing as Alexander re-entered, scissoring slowly before sliding in two more. Laurens cried out, the heat of the stretch suddenly unbearable. He rocked back against them, mouth falling open as he turned his face into the dirt. Pleasure was rising up inside him, so torturously overwhelming he could scarcely see Alexander above him, the edges of his vision a blur of colour. Alexander made a strange noise, fingers curling reprovingly. He squeezed his throat once more, slowly, drawing it out and Laurens’ abdomen lurched, hips snapping forward as he came.  
  
Alex’s name spilled from his lips before he could catch himself. The waves of his orgasm rolled endless; he flung his hands over his face, gasping and shuddering violently. Alexander’s hand darted from his neck, going instead to his hair and petting it fretfully, eyes wide like he was trying to calm a skittish animal whose species he’d had little experience. He was saying words but Laurens couldn’t hear them, the roaring in his ears crashing around them so that they were lost.  
  
After what seemed like hours, he stopped shaking. Removing his hands from his face he sat up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Hamilton slid off him, rolling back onto his knees and perching nervously. The bulge of his cock jutted, huge and obvious in the tent of his breeches, in a way that struck Laurens as horribly vulgar. He tore his gaze away, the sight of it suddenly unbearable.  
  
“Thank you,” he said quietly.  
  
He heard Alexander’s breath catch, but when he spoke his voice was only a little higher than usual. “You’re welcome.”  
  
Laurens pulled up his breeches, hands shaky on the laces. He got to his feet, pulling his coat off the floor and dusting off the mud. Alexander stayed where he was. He wasn’t looking at Laurens but at the water, his expression pensive and calm like it hadn’t been all evening. Laurens turned his gaze towards the trees, suddenly craving the cool dark of the branches, the comforting vegetable rot of undergrowth.  
  
“We should be getting back,” he told Alexander. “The others will wonder where we are.”  
  
Alexander nodded, head still turned away from him. “You go,” he told him softly, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I think I will stay out a little longer.”  
  
A gentle breeze ruffled the surface of the water. Laurens shivered, and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He hesitated, weighing the argument in his head before dropping the coat next to Alexander. “Here.”  
  
Alexander didn’t say anything or move to take it. Laurens left it and the abandoned tin of saddle grease where it was before turning his back, and heading towards the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted this at work so sorry if the typos are bad and the porn is rushed and the formatting is shit
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! please let me know if u did xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://scarlett-the-seachild.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments are wonderful!


End file.
